There are places that do not ask much of you. They simply receive you.
Wales was like that for me.
I arrived at a time of year when the land feels inward-looking—fields muted, skies expansive, light soft and unassuming. A season that seems to encourage reflection rather than spectacle. It felt fitting, because this journey was not about movement so much as return.
I was blessed to spend time with my two cousins, Phil and Carwen, while I was there. We hadn’t been together for many years, our lives having unfolded along separate paths, shaped by distance, time, and circumstance. Yet something remarkable happens when family reunites in a quiet place: conversation resumes not where it left off, but where it truly matters. There was laughter, shared memory, and a sense of continuity—an unspoken understanding that history binds us even when years have passed in between.
Outside those moments of connection, I found solitude. The kind that isn’t lonely, but restorative. Long stretches of land. Roads that seem to drift rather than lead. A landscape that doesn’t compete for attention, but rewards patience. Wales has a way of holding space—allowing you to walk, to breathe, to think.
What stayed with me most was the openness of the people. An ease. A friendliness that doesn’t feel performative or rushed. Small exchanges, simple kindnesses, the sense that time still moves at a human pace here. In a world that so often feels accelerated and fragmented, this mattered more than I expected.
This photo essay is less a record of places than of atmosphere. Of pauses. Of being held—by land, by family, by a culture that seems comfortable with quiet strength. At this time of year especially, it felt like a gentle reminder of what sustains us: connection, belonging, and the grace of simply being present with those we love.
Wales gave me that. And I carry it with me still.
:: Rand
All images and text are copyright Rand Leeb-du Toit, 2025.
Thanks for the Welsh landscape that opens your post. My wife and I traveled to Wales years ago and stayed at a countryside house with about a dozen English hikers who minded neither rain nor sheep dung, lots of it. I think I have Welsh ancestors. Thomas Davis, I'm told, is a Welsh name. Like you I found the natives very welcoming.